Marco pulled away slowly, lips just barely leaving hers, his forehead resting against hers for a second longer as he caught his breath.
Leni's eyes fluttered open, dazed, her chest rising and falling a little too fast, her hands still curled in the fabric of his hoodie.
He looked down at her—at the way she lay beneath him, lips kissed pink, hair spread across his pillow like ink. And then at the skirt.
That damn skirt.
He let out a shaky breath, eyes flicking back to hers, softer now. A bit guilty. A bit too honest.
"Your skirt got dangerously shorter today," he said quietly, his voice rough. "Maybe wear longer skirts for the project."
He swallowed hard.
"I don't know how much I can control myself, Enny…"
She blinked, still breathless, still lost in the afterglow of his kiss.
But she heard the way he said it—not like a threat, but a confession. A warning to himself more than her. Because no matter how close he pulled her, he still cared enough to stop. To speak.
And that made her want him even more.
She gave a breathy laugh, half-nervous, half-teasing. "Maybe I don't want you to control yourself."
Marco froze.
His eyes locked onto hers—searching, uncertain.
But Leni didn't look away.
And for the first time, she saw it in him: not just heat or hunger, but hesitation. Like he was on the edge of saying something real. Something raw.
Instead, he leaned down and kissed her again—soft this time. Reverent.
Then he whispered against her lips, "You're going to be the end of me, Enny."